


none of the king's horses

by koedeza



Series: apocalypse, you say [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, i was feeling funky when i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: The Winchesters keep the streets clean and in exchange, their hands never are.or, an au where the Winchesters live in NYC, society is in shambles, and monsters are very very real
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: apocalypse, you say [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048558
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	none of the king's horses

**Author's Note:**

> simply put, im an awful person

**1.**

The pair ambles onto the subway at one in the morning, fingers numb, cheeks burnt, skin pale, lips turning a hollow shade of blue. 

There are other stragglers on the subway, none of them as bloody and bruised as them. If you’re taking the subway at one in the morning you’re a New Yorker, and if you’re a New Yorker you’re not batting an eye. 

The waitress who’s leaning on her girlfriend’s shoulder doesn’t bat an eye though, she _stares_. It’s probably all the Don Julio running through her veins but she feels like she’s in a dream, her head heavy and hallucinogenic. 

“You’re useless,” The taller one doesn’t bother whispering, only wraps his arm around his own bruised ribs as he plops down onto a seat. They both know he doesn’t mean it, they both know he means it entirely.

“You’re stupid,” The short boy laughs hoarsely as the train rattles down the line, broken fingers curled around the taller one’s collar. He hands him a pill case and a twenty, his perpetual smile upheld by cracked lips. 

The tall one dry swallows some Advil and tucks the twenty into his coat, laying his head against the seat. “Did you learn your lesson?” 

The short one already has his eyes closed. “Of course I didn’t. Do I ever?”

The November wind of New York City finds a way to tear everything apart.

**2.**

The landlady stands patiently at the top of the stairs, eyes calculating and crow’s feet somehow menacing. She’s owned the building for years, she’s turned the stare into an art form.

The younger one has messy brown hair, eyes the color of... _something_ , he wears baggy t-shirts with blocky Russian writing and purple cargo pants that are too short and long socks because New York City is _cold_ and has thrifted Doctor Martens and he sometimes lets his girlfriend paint his nails to cover up the blood that gets stuck under there. 

He’s a work in progress.

The older one wears a ripped windbreaker and hoodies and baggy jeans and a pair of stolen Reebok Paydirts’ like its homework, his eyes are always red-rimmed, (it’s not from drugs, he swears) his hair is always buzzed, his neck eternally bruised, and those are never from the monsters, everyone knows that much. 

He thinks he’s perfect, and it’s exactly why he’s not.

The old one climbs the stairs like a newborn foal, steps dizzy and awkward, hands messily placed in his pockets. He smiles at the landlady as he passes her, the smell of blood following him like oversaturated cologne. 

The young one stops in front of her and reaches into his pocket to pull out the one hundred fifty dollars that are owed monthly.

The brothers? Twins? Definitely not cousins- They always keep to themselves, they always pay their rent on time, they always kill anything that comes creeping around the neighborhood. She–begrudgingly—doesn’t mind them, tolerates them even. 

The Winchesters keep the streets clean and in exchange, their hands never are.

**3.**

“Maybe I should have stayed home,” Dean squeezes his eyes closed and breathes in all the scents of the city, burnt rubber, 2 dollar hamburgers, sewer water, cold sweat, the stench of rot that can only come from a Black Dog. 

“When faced with a choice; fixing cars and possible death being the options,” Sam picks at the blood that’s dried on his face, painfully aware of how tears form like little lagoons in the corner of his eyes. “Dean Winchester chooses death, ladies and gentlemen.” 

“What can I say, I’m predictable that way.” Dean moves forward and swats Sam’s hand away from his face, tripping on the Black Dog remains that are scattered across the concrete. 

The abandoned building they’re standing in creaks and moves like the swell of the tide, all rusty door hinges and collapsing staircases, the essence of Williamsburg, or Greenpoint, or whatever dying neighborhood they’re in.

“Besides,” Dean puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it with his zippo, taking a long drag. “I’m not the only one avoiding responsibility.” 

“Highschool’s not as important as it used to be.” Sam follows Dean out the window and down the fire escape, boots slamming onto broken glass. “A diploma isn’t going to get me anywhere. College won’t get me anywhere, not anymore.” 

“Sure. Learning to survive is more important than, I dunno, SohCahToa.” It’s not what Sam wants to hear, and Dean’s fully aware, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling when he feels his brother staring at him. 

“I’m surprised your peanut-sized brain remembers what that is,” Sam says, but there’s no heat behind his words.

“I’m surprised you remember what a peanut is, considering you’ve never tried one.” Dean bumps his shoulder into Sam’s, his smile wide. His own brain tries to remember, mostly dead taste buds feeling around for a memory that may or not even be there.

By the time they get home, three more monsters are dead, Sam’s lost a little more hearing, and Dean can feel his left knee coming apart at the seams.

  
  


**4.**

“We’re going to bleed. A _lot_.” The antsy one laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. His knee doesn’t stop bouncing, he won’t stop cracking his knuckles or fiddling with the golden charm around his neck.

“That’s... uh, okay,” The police chief looks away, latches his eyes onto something else. He’s unsettled by how much he’s reminded of his daughter, the boundless energy and bottle green eyes and thinly veiled aggression. “We can always clean the blood up. Stitch you guys up. Whatever you need.” 

“Let’s just say you’ll owe us one,” The quiet one says, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to melt into the very idea of being nothing. His grey (blue? green? yellow?) eyes are fixed on a tear in his jacket, and his eyelashes cast a shadow that makes it impossible to read his expression. 

“Of course. I can wipe out criminal records if there is any.” The police chief is stuttering in front of these _children_ (the antsy one can’t be older than his own son) and suddenly he feels the sweat beading on his upper lip, the way wisps of hair settle on his forehead. He resists the urge to shoot out a hand, to just move out of the way, even if he doesn’t know who he’s disturbing. 

“Criminal records are irrelevant now. Nice of you to think the law means anything,” Antsy one stands up, examining the dusty medals and certificates hung up around the chief’s office. “Either way, we’ll do the job.” 

Quiet one stands and begins to follow Antsy one out of the office, but the chief abruptly shoots up, bumping into his desk and knocking things over.

“Wait, I-” 

They turn, eyes indifferent to whoever he might have once been.

“They’re killing more, and it’s not just because they need to eat, they do it for sport now.” 

“Look, we’ve been at this for far longer than you’ve even _known_ about their existence-”

“Just,” The Chief interrupts one more time, his hands embarrassingly unsteady. “Be careful. Please.” 

Antsy one stills for a few seconds, smile faltering uncomfortably. The quiet one runs a hand over teenage stubble and walks out of the room.

It’s the last time the Chief sees them together.

**5.**

December turns the city into a landscape most closely resembled by the Arctic. The wind is joined by sleet, and the sleet by snow, and the snow by temperatures that are beyond freezing.

December, as always, is joined by death. 

On a Friday afternoon, a casket is lowered into the ground, the top already peppered with fresh snow. The city ran out of space to bury bodies a long time ago, most of them left to be dragged away by monsters or cremated if the family could afford it. 

This one… the cemetery groundskeeper owed a favor.

There are only two people at the funeral, both eerily quiet. The groundskeeper sees both of them often, whenever they’re visiting other family members' graves. The Police Chief visits his daughter weekly, always bringing tears and lament and sadness that the cemetery has become saturated with. The other one always comes with his brother, visiting a dead girlfriend, or their father with stories of hunts and kills and survival. 

Now he’s going to be visiting two family members, and he’s going to be doing it alone.

The groundskeeper isn’t surprised to see a lack of tears. There’s snow coating both their eyelashes, frozen and transparent and unwilling to let go. 

“Would you like to say anything?” The Police Chief asks, hands already wrapped around a shovel.

“No.” The brother’s voice cracks, his eyes unable to water. 

“Would you like _me_ to say something?” The Police Chief is not nearly as used to death as he should be.

“No.” The remaining brother begins to replace the dirt from the grave, covering whatever is left of his history. His clothes are still stained bloody, none of them black. He might be cut and bruised but he doesn’t hurt as much as he should, and maybe it’s because he’s not really sure he’s feeling anything at all. In a way, he guesses he’s always been ready to mourn, always been fully equipped with the knowledge that one of them was going to die before the other. When the last patch of dirt covers the grave, his palms are blistered and bloody, his heart slowing in an awful momentum. 

Distantly, something roars.

**Author's Note:**

> this reads like terrible terrible fanfiction because that is exactly what it is


End file.
